Deadly Little Lessons (13 page)

After he took my flashlight, I ended up crying myself to sleep. Once I’m awake—Hours later? Minutes later? Is it the following day?—my eyes are caked with goo. They sting each time I blink. I wash them out in the basin, noticing that the water is only about an inch deep. I need more. My throat’s parched. My lips feel swollen and sore.

I scramble for my cup, but I can’t seem to find it now, and so I lean right in over the basin and lap up the dirty water. Pebbles slide down my throat, cutting into tissue. I wonder what would happen if I coughed…if I’d spit up blood. Is it possible to choke on your own blood in a heavy sleep? I almost wish that would happen.

I stop myself from crying again, but even when tears aren’t pouring out, I feel like there’s a continuous whimper inside me—one that I can’t console, even with the stories that I tell myself in an effort to stay sane.

Story #1: This is all a practical joke, played by Jaden and Misery, who have a sick sense of humor. At any moment, one of them will poke her face through the hole and tell me it’s time to go.

Story #2: My parents are teaching me to appreciate what I have and be more empathetic toward those less fortunate. They’re in the process of redoing our house right now, and they want to surprise me with a brand-new bedroom: my prize for enduring all of this, and learning a valuable lesson.

Story #3: I’m being videotaped. Some executive from MTV saw one of my many YouTube videos and thought that I was really talented. He or she is preparing a pilot for a new TV show—one that I’ll be the star of, that has the theme of survival.

I wonder if I’m going crazy. I think I read somewhere—or was it something I learned in psychology class?—that people often make up their own reality as a means of coping with what their brains can’t possibly handle. The idea comforts me, because while no one else out there seems to be trying to protect or save me, at least maybe my brain is.

I fumble for the tape recorder, knowing that I need to give him what he wants if I am to move on to the next step, even if the next step is death. Death would be better than this purgatory.

I spend several minutes rehearsing what I might say, trying to be as vulnerable as Rizzo was in
Grease
when she sang “There Are Worse Things I Could Do.” And then I run my fingers over the controls, pushing the fourth button for
RECORD
.

“You say you want to know what makes me tick, so here it is: my heart. My heart ticks at triple its normal speed because of what I imagine: rats scurrying through the hole, nibbling at my ears as I sleep. Dying from this cut on my wrist. Never seeing my parents again, never getting to tell them how sorry I am.

“That’s what this is all about. When I found out they’d lied to me, I decided to punish them for it. I started abandoning everything they loved about me, everything they’d made me into, everything I ever loved.

“Sounds like the perfect punishment, right? Give up what makes me happy as a way to get them back? Could anyone be more stupid?

“I threatened to run away. I even wrote a letter and packed a bag. My parents offered boarding school as a way to give me some space. But I guess you found me first.

“My biggest fear? They’ve assumed I found my own way of getting some space and aren’t even looking for me now.”

I push the third button on the recorder to stop it, surprisingly uplifted to have gotten all of that out. Sort of ironic, since my thoughts are going to him. The truth is, I had no real intention of running away. I think I just wanted to punish my parents and impress Misery at the same time. Sadly, I think I accomplished both.

I drag the recorder across my cell, feeling for the hole in the wall, confident that this type of honesty is exactly what he had in mind. Hopefully it’ll earn me back my flashlight, as well as a fresh bandage and some water. And hopefully I’ll soon be able to get out of here. Or maybe that’s just another story I tell myself.

A
FTER THE WHOLE
mortifying debacle in the pottery studio, I head back to the dorm and go upstairs to Wes’s room. Unfortunately, he isn’t there, but fortunately the room’s unlocked. I go inside and sit on his bed, not wanting to be alone; and somehow, being among all of his things, reminds me that I’m not. I grab his sock monkey just as my phone rings.

“Hello,” I answer, still feeling shaken up inside.

“Hey, there.” It’s Mom. “I’m sorry I missed your call earlier. So, you’re adapting okay.… How’s your room?”

“Yes and fine.”

“And Wes is there with you?”

“He is. It was a nice surprise,” I tell her.

“Well, it’s good to know that you have a friend there.” She continues to chatter on about how having a solid support system can make all the difference.

“So, I’m kind of just getting used to this place,” I say, once she finally pauses for a breath. “But I’ll give you and Dad a call in a few days; sound okay?”

“Is there anything we can do for you in the meantime? Do you have everything you need?”

“You and Dad allowed me to come here,” I say, hugging the monkey to my stomach. “For now, some time away is all I can ask.”

“Well, I’m not so sure Dad will be able to wait a few days until he speaks with you, but I’ll tell him to be mindful of your need for space.”

“Thanks,” I say, glad that she totally gets it.

We say our good-byes, and then I call Wes to see where he is.

“I just got out of my theory class,” he says. “I’m assuming yours is over as well.…”

“Probably.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?
Camelia?
” There’s a fatherly tone in his voice.

“Where are you?” I ask him.

“In the café, sipping an iced mocha latte with some friends. And you?”

“In your room, hugging Mr. Sock Monkey.”

“Gentle, he doesn’t like it rough. Would you and Monkey like to come join us? My treat. I’ll even throw in some extra foam.”

“I actually think I should pay a visit to Mrs. Beckerman.” Seeing that I’ve screwed up the majority of my day, I might as well be productive in at least one area.

“Wait, is Adam there with you?”

“No, and we can talk about him later. I need to borrow your car again.”

“Why, what’s the plan?”

“I haven’t really thought that far.”

“Which is part of your problem. You’re too damned impulsive, Camelia. And acting on impulse is pretty much when every serial killer gets caught.”

“Except I’m hardly a serial killer.”

“Right, because if you were, I wouldn’t be hanging with you.”

“Glad you have your standards.”

“You need a plan,” he persists. “You didn’t have one last night, and look at where it got you: stealing my car and breaking down in tears. And was it really worth it? Aside from getting me into your bed, that is.…” He snickers.

“I
have
a plan,” I bluff. “I’m just going to knock on the Beckermans’ door and tell them who I am, and that I believe Sasha’s still alive.”

“And when they probe further?”

“I have no problem telling anyone about my touch power.”

“Even if they don’t believe in that stuff and think you’re crazy?”

“At least I’ll know that I tried.” I let out a giant breath, thinking about Neal Moche’s blog—about how he also half believes that what he’s doing is crazy. “So, can I borrow your car?”

“I’d prefer it if you waited for me.”

“Can you come now?”

“Negative. I have a group assignment I need to work on.”

“How about if I promise to text you the second I arrive and then the moment I leave?”

“Fine.” He sighs. “My keys are on top of my minifridge, beneath the bag of fried pork rinds.”

“Nice choice. No one would ever think to look there.”

“Be careful, Camelia. I want a full report.”

“Thanks,” I say before hanging up. I grab his keys, along with a mozzarella stick from the fridge, and sit back on his bed. Heeding his advice, I spend some time going over what I plan to say and how I want things to play out, and trying to predict the toughest questions. Then I walk out the door.

T
HE BECKERMAN HOUSE
is even more inviting in the daylight, with pink and blue hydrangea bushes bordering the house and a wooden porch swing with a pergola-type roof.

I park in front, text Wes that I’ve arrived safely, and then get out of the car. Standing at the end of the Beckermans’ walkway, I spot a book sitting on the swing. It’s splayed open and facedown on the seat, as if someone had recently left it. There’s also a minivan parked in the driveway.

I move up to the door and ring the doorbell. Mrs. Beckerman appears a couple of seconds later, standing behind the screen door.

“Can I help you?” she asks, smoothing her palms over her chocolate brown hair, as if I were anyone to impress.

In a lavender sundress, she’s much tinier than I expected, much more petite than she appears on TV. The sundress hangs off her pale, freckled skin. She looks older than she did on TV. These past couple of months must’ve really aged her.

“I actually think that I’d like to try and help you,” I say.

She squints and edges the screen door open. Her eyes are the color of the blue hydrangea bushes. “
How
can you help me?” she asks, giving me the once-over—from my clay-spattered T-shirt to my sweatpants.

“Is your husband home? Do you think I could come in and speak to you both?”

“You’re the girl who called me,” she says, “on the phone the other day.”

I nod, feeling my mouth turn dry. “Please, can I come in?” I ask again.

Her face is full of questions, but she opens the door wider to let me in. “Do you know where my daughter is?”

Standing now in the entryway of her house, I notice that the interior smells like burned popcorn. “My name’s Camelia Hammond.” I fish inside my bag for my student ID and hand it to her as proof.

She takes her time reading it over, perhaps memorizing every word and digit.

“I’m participating in the summer arts program at Sumner,” I continue. “You must know the campu—”

“Do you know where my daughter is?” she asks again. Her hand trembles in front of her mouth.

“I don’t. But I can explain why I’m here.”

She hands me back my student ID and I follow her into the living room. It’s decorated in rich tones of violet and gold—too pretty for my T-shirt and sweatpants. I sit down on the edge of a sofa, eyeing a large black-and-white photo positioned over the fireplace: the Beckerman family on the beach.

“It was taken last summer,” Mrs. Beckerman says, following my gaze. “Just before Sasha found out the truth. I assume you’re familiar with the case…the reason she ran away to begin with?”

“Except I don’t think that Sasha ran away.”

She turns to face me again, her eyes glazed over with fear. “What do you know about my daughter?”

“Mostly what I’ve read online or heard about from TV. I have no real proof that she didn’t run away. I just don’t think that she did.”

Her eyebrow rises in suspicion. “And you called me on the phone and came all the way here to tell me what you
think
…?”

“It’s actually more complicated than that.”

Mrs. Beckerman sits down across from me and places her hands in her lap. Her fingernails are chewed down to the cuticles.

“I’ve been doing a lot of research on your daughter’s case,” I explain.

“Why?” Her eyes narrow. “Did you know her from someplace? Did you meet her at a party?”

I start to ramble about the unsolved-mysteries show and about my search for summer programs, and how the latter led me to a link concerning Sasha’s case. “I clicked on it because of the show. It was sort of like what happens when you become interested in something; you start to notice it everywhere.…”

“And you were noticing Sasha everywhere?”

“Sort of,” I say, trying to remain focused despite Mrs. Beckerman’s intensity.

“And what about the daisy?”

“The daisy?” I ask, trying to catch up.

“You knew about it. You mentioned it on the phone.”

“Right,” I say, picturing the sculpture I did in my basement studio. “Did Sasha like daisies? Did she have a special daisy charm?”

“You also mentioned something about the letter.…”

I nod. “I didn’t know if either of those things might be clues to her disappearance.”

“What makes
you
think that they are?” she asks.

“I sense things,” I tell her. “About the future, I mean. It’s kind of confusing. I don’t even fully understand it myself, but I have this power, and it’s helping me to get clues about your daughter.”

“A power?” she asks, her face scrunching up in confusion.

I pause to look back at the black-and-white photo. Sasha’s smile is contagious. It almost appears as if she was caught in a laugh—as if she couldn’t have been happier with her life. “It’s really hard to explain,” I continue, “but there were other clues, too.”

“Well, I don’t believe in superpowers.” She stands up from the sofa.

But I remain where I am. “Was there a special box that Sasha kept?”

“I think you need to leave,” she says.

“First, please hear me out.”

“Leave now, or I’m calling the police.” She pulls a cell phone from her pocket.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” I blurt out, finally getting up. “I mean, I don’t even know Sasha. I’ve never met her before. And up until a few weeks ago, I barely knew her name. But I’ve been hearing her crying inside my head—for weeks now; it hasn’t stopped. It’s how I know that she’s still alive.”

“I’m calling the police,” she repeats, and starts to dial.

“Does your daughter have a frog?” I ask. “Does she keep that frog in a box with a lid? Was there some sort of music that played when the box was opened?” I rack my brain trying to remember the tune inside my head. I hum a couple of notes, frustrated that the crying voice kept me from hearing more.

Mrs. Beckerman’s face goes white. “Who told you?” she asks. “How could you possibly know?”

“Like I said, I sense things,” I tell her.

Visibly trembling, she reaches out to take my hand and leads me up the stairs. I follow her into the master bedroom. It has a four-poster bed and antique-looking furniture.

Mrs. Beckerman moves to her closet. From the top shelf, she pulls down a medium-size gift bag and hands it to me.

“What is it?” I ask, unable to help noticing how pretty the packaging is: a bright pink bag with shimmering purple tissue paper sticking out at the top. A matching purple ribbon ties the bag handles closed.

“It’s a gift for Sasha,” Mrs. Beckerman explains. “Go ahead and open it.”

“Are you sure? Don’t you want to save this for her?”

“I can easily rewrap it if I need to.”

I look down at the bag and also take note of its ample weight. And then I reach in, through the tunnel of tissue paper, and feel a smooth, hard edge. I wrap my hand around it, pulling out a wooden box of some sort. I set the bag down and remove the lid from the box. A sterling-silver frog pendant sits inside the jewelry box’s velvet-lined cavity.

My heart starts to pound as I realize my prediction was right and that I’ve finally convinced Mrs. Beckerman to listen to me.

“No one aside from Sasha’s father and the jeweler I bought this from would’ve known about this gift,” she says.

“But I was able to see it,” I tell her. “Inside my head. The image came to me.” I try to explain my power of psychometry and how this wasn’t the first time I experienced it.

Mrs. Beckerman takes a seat on her bed, gripping the sides for stability. “And this supposed power that you’re talking about…” she begins. “Is that also how you knew about Daisy?”

“Daisy?”
I ask, completely confused. “I sculpted a daisy…in my basement. It had the center part, with petals all around—”

“It was Sasha’s name,” she says, interrupting. “Before we adopted her and changed it, that is.”

I bite my lip, feeling my blood churn. Chills run over my skin. “And what about the
t
shape?” I ask. “Two lines that intersect, like a plus sign?”

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “I guess I’d have to think about that one.”

“But do you believe me?” I ask. “About my power, I mean? About how I know these things?”

Mrs. Beckerman doesn’t answer, nor does she ask me to elaborate. Instead, she tells me about Sasha’s love of frogs and how she’s been collecting them since she was six years old. “Key chains, water bottles, fuzzy slippers… Come,” she says, leading me out of the room and down the hall.

We stand in the doorway of Sasha’s bedroom. It’s painted a sunny yellow and the bed linens are all navy blue with tiny pink roses. It smells like roses, too.

“Look,” she says, nodding toward the bed. It’s loaded with stuffed animals—all of them frogs. There’s also a frog-shaped pillow. A Kermit alarm clock sits on the bedside table.

I really want to go in, but Mrs. Beckerman pulls me back into the hall, closing the door. Sasha’s room must be off limits.

“Shall we go back downstairs?” she asks. Without waiting for my answer, she starts down.

I reluctantly follow her, and we take seats back in the living room. To my surprise, I’m still holding the jewelry box. I run my palms over the sides, noticing a windup dial at the back. “May I?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says.

I crank the dial all the way. Music begins to play. “From the
Nutcracker Suite
?” I ask, recognizing the tune as the same one that played in my head.

“It is. Sasha’s father and I would take her every year.”

I close my eyes and concentrate hard. Sasha’s cry is a faraway whimper now. “I know this may sound weird,” I venture, “but by any chance, when Sasha cries, does she sometimes get the hiccups?”

Mrs. Beckerman nods, and her eyes fill with tears. But I’m pretty sure they’re happy tears, because I’ve managed to give her hope. She wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Thank you,” she says.

“But I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You have indeed,” she says, breaking the embrace. “You’ve given me hope that my daughter is still alive.”